


Read Me Like an Open Book

by lafiametta



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And nobody gets scurvy, Everyone lives, M/M, Romance, This is ridiculously fluffy and I make no apologies for that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-02 13:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15797721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafiametta/pseuds/lafiametta
Summary: Henry hadn't been expecting much of anything when he walked out of the rain and into that bookstore, and definitely not the possibility of losing his heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a [photoset and drabble](http://lafiametta.tumblr.com/post/177007802337/read-me-like-an-open-book-a-terror-au-he-was) on Tumblr, but then it took on a life of its own (as these things often do), and it's shifted into a multi-chapter fic where I get to shamelessly indulge in my need to watch two of the softest Terror boys fall in love and not die. (I'm always happy to take ideas for future chapters, by the way - [just send me a message](http://lafiametta.tumblr.com/ask)!)

He was only trying to get out of the rain. 

In an attempt to kill time, Henry wandered the bookshop’s aisles for a few minutes, absently scanning the titles, until he found himself in the Classics section, where he came across a man kneeling down and organizing one of the bottom shelves.

“Can I help you find something?” the man asked, turning so Henry could see his face. He was terribly handsome, gray just beginning to touch his beard, thick brows framing a pair of dark and soulful eyes. 

“No, I’m just…” Henry paused, suddenly tongue-tied. “Just browsing, I guess.”

“Well, I’m always happy to make a recommendation.” The man stood, reaching up to grab a thick paperback from just above his head. “Here,” he said, extending it towards Henry. “Can’t go wrong with Homer.”

It wasn’t anything Henry would have ever picked up on his own – but he took it anyway, suppressing a shiver as the man’s fingertips lightly brushed against his hand. And later that night, once he finally got back home, he pulled the book from the plastic bag and began to read, the walls of his apartment slowly falling away as he sailed across the sea and marched and fought and died along the plains of Troy. 

He went back to the shop three days later, his heart racing as he caught sight of a familiar face behind the counter. 

“I finished Homer,” Henry said. “And I was hoping you might have another recommendation.”

“How do you feel about poetry?” the man asked, and they both began to smile. 


	2. Chapter 2

The man’s name was John Bridgens. That was the first thing Henry learned.

He learned other things too, over the course of the next few weeks, such as the fact that he wasn’t just an employee, and that the bookstore actually belonged to him. He and another man had bought it in the early nineties and run it together until a few years ago when his partner died and left his half to John. 

He learned that John Bridgens was decidedly old-fashioned, but in a way that seemed more charming than anything else. He didn’t own a cell phone, and made do with a landline at home and at the store –  _“No one’s ever needed me so badly they couldn’t wait an hour or two,”_  he told a rather perplexed Henry – and he preferred to write everything out in longhand, using a fountain pen that he kept tucked in his jacket pocket. (Henry was fairly certain John didn’t even know what a text message was, much less how to send one.)

And when they occasionally went out to a nearby bar after closing up – Henry had gotten in the habit of going by the bookstore after work and sometimes he would find himself still there at closing time – John would always order vintage port and savor it unhurriedly, as if it were the last drink he might ever have. (Henry’s draft lager began to seem rather unremarkable in comparison.)

In the meantime, Henry’s bookcase at home was rapidly filling up, as he acquired volumes by Sophocles and Emily Dickinson and Cervantes and the Brontës. ( _“In my opinion, Anne had the most interesting mind of the three,”_  John had said.) Nor were the modern classics neglected, for there was also Orwell and Atwood and Morrison and one of his new-found favorites, a slim work by J. M. Coetzee. He had never been much of a reader – and after college he had lost the inclination altogether – so it was astonishing to realize that he could lose himself so easily within the pages of a book, that he could fall in love (and hate) with so many imaginary people, that he could stay up half the night just to know how the story ended. Perhaps it was also because he knew that there’d be someone he could share his thoughts with, for John would always be there when he came in the store, ready to talk through each plot point and literary allusion, and then to recommend something new for him to try. 

(He might have suspected that as the proprietor John was only using this as an underhanded method of increasing his sales volume, if not for the fact that after his first visit, each book was slipped into a bag and pushed across the counter without him making any purchase at all.)

Still, Henry could tell that John was interested in him beyond just conversation – his own interest, he hoped, was more than evident – but he hadn’t made any kind of move at all, and when they said goodnight in the bookstore or out on the street outside the bar there was little more than a farewell and a quiet nod. Perhaps it could be chalked up to John’s old-fashioned nature, wanting to get to know him before jumping into anything, but Henry was getting a little tired of waiting, and so finally decided to take matters into his own hands. 

There had been an author event that night – every so often, John invited local writers to give a reading and sign a few books – and Henry had volunteered to help by setting up chairs and laying out the refreshments. He would have been there anyway, he reasoned, and it was nice to see John in his professional setting as he chatted happily with the author and then gave the (admittedly rather small) audience a brief introduction before the talk began. 

It was only after the event was over and he had finished stacking up all the chairs that Henry made his way to the front of the store, where John had just locked the door and turned the sign in the window over to “Closed.” It was now or never, he supposed. 

“So do you think this counts as our first date?” he asked as he leaned against the counter, trying to seem as casual as possible. 

John blinked and looked up at him, his gaze entirely blank, and for an awful second Henry wondered if he had completely misread everything, and then he wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

But then those dark eyebrows turned inward, producing a soft expression that was equal parts amusement, exasperation, and delight.

“If that’s your idea of romance,” he said, stepping closer, “then I think we have some work to do.”

And all at once (or so it seemed to Henry) he was there, right there next to him, so close that Henry could catch the faint spice of his morning aftershave. A hand reached out towards Henry’s jaw, grasping it gently, and pulling him ever so slightly forward to where John’s lips soon found his. Henry’s eyes instinctively fluttered shut even as his mouth opened just a little, sensing nothing but the warm taste of John along the tip of his tongue. As desire began to uncoil from deep in his belly to all throughout the rest of his body, he set his hand on the counter to steady himself, but even that did not seem as if it would be enough to keep him upright.

After a few moments, John pulled away, and to Henry’s disappointment, the kiss appeared to be over almost as soon as it had begun. But John’s dark eyes were warmed through as he gazed back, and he lightly brushed his thumb over the damp on Henry’s lips before dropping his hand back down to his side. 

Henry could still feel the tremor of his own heartbeat as he watched John take his pen from his jacket pocket and begin to write out a street address on a nearby scrap of paper. Henry knew the area; it was a quiet neighborhood, near the university. 

“Why don’t you come for dinner on Friday, at, say, eight?” The faintest smile played upon John’s lips as he held the paper out towards him. “I make an excellent coq au vin.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was dark by the time he pulled up next to the house, which looked almost exactly as he had imagined it would: neat and modestly sized, tucked a little way back from the street, a pair of leafy oaks framing the stone path that led up to the front porch. Light spilled from the front windows, warm gold beacons shining into the night.

Henry grabbed the gift from the passenger seat and stepped out into the cool of the evening air. His stomach fluttered unsteadily – it had been doing that for most of the day – and as he made his way along the path he tried to take several deep breaths to calm himself. It was only John, he told himself. It was just like dropping by the bookstore, which he did all the time. But it wasn’t really, not if he was being honest, because he had never once walked into that bookstore thinking that he was likely to end up kissing John Bridgens or – in what was now looking like a distinct possibility – spending the night in his bed. Still, he knew it would be foolish to go in with any kind of expectations of what might happen; if John wanted to take this slow, which could easily be the case, he was more than willing to wait. 

And then he remembered the feeling of John’s mouth, so warm and eager as it coaxed against his, which only caused his heart to dance more skittishly against the tight confines of his ribs. 

He pressed the doorbell and then ran a quick hand over his hair, glancing down at himself for a moment to make sure he was halfway presentable. (Not that there was much to be done if he wasn’t, he realized.) 

The door swung open to reveal John, looking sharply handsome in a white slim-fitting button-down and dark jeans, a chef’s apron tied around his waist. He smiled warmly, his hand reaching out to clasp Henry’s shoulder as he leaned in to give him a small welcoming kiss upon his cheek. 

“Please, come in.” He stepped back to invite Henry inside, and it was only then that Henry remembered the bouquet he was holding in his hand.

“Lovely,” John said as Henry offered it to him, looking a bit surprised but accepting it with a gesture of practiced grace. 

(At first, Henry hadn’t really known what to bring: wine was pretty much out of the question, as John knew so much more about it than he did, and buying a bottle of liquor was also tricky, mostly because he didn’t know what kind John preferred – although he suspected his taste ran towards the higher end of things. It was only after several other failed ideas that he hit upon the notion of flowers, which was, admittedly, a rather unconventional thing to give a man, but he thought John of all people would appreciate the sentiment. At the florist’s he had spent some time looking over all his options, finally deciding on a combination of gardenias, lilac-colored dahlias, and peonies so dark and velvety purple they looked almost black. “Lucky girl,” the florist had said. Henry had just smiled, saying nothing in return.) 

John took his jacket and then excused himself for a moment so that he could find something to put the flowers in. “Would you like wine?” he asked before he disappeared into the kitchen. “I’ve got both red and white.”

“Whatever’s open,” Henry answered back.

While John was gone, he took the opportunity to have a look around: the space felt warm and lived-in, with touches of forest green and navy mixed with dark wood accents. A fireplace took up part of one side of the living room, the mantle topped with decorative antiques, but the prominent feature, which covered two walls nearly floor to ceiling, were the books. There seemed to be just about every kind imaginable: slim paperbacks and hardcovers with worn-edged dust jackets and even a few leather-bound volumes with gold-stamped titles written across the spine. Henry stopped himself from examining them too closely – he wasn’t at the bookstore, after all – and instead allowed himself to think about what such a collection might represent, a lifetime of words hand-picked and arranged with care, waiting patiently along the shelves like so many old, familiar friends. 

Music was playing softly from a set of speakers in the corner, what sounded to his ears like old-time piano jazz, and he quickly spotted a turntable just nearby, a red-labeled vinyl record spinning underneath the plexiglass cover. It shouldn’t have surprised him – it wasn’t as if he had imagined John making Spotify playlists or asking Alexa to play his favorite album – but still he smiled, slightly charmed by his discovery. 

John reappeared with two glasses of white wine and offered one to Henry. “Cheers,” he said, holding out his glass, and Henry raised his own drink to tap against it, the tiny crystal note left to vibrate in the air.

The wine, he was certain, was delicious, but it was hard to focus on the taste when all he could think about was how close John was standing and how completely delectable his arms looked with his shirt sleeves casually cuffed up to the elbow. His breath began to turn heavy, charged by their unacknowledged proximity. Still, he knew he couldn’t just keep standing there silently holding his glass; he needed to say something interesting, or just anything at all. 

“It smells wonderful,” Henry finally said, nodding in the direction of the kitchen. He wasn’t exaggerating; he could catch the scent of rosemary and garlic as well as something rich and savory he could only hope was bacon.  

John shrugged. “Not much to it, really. You throw everything in the pot and let the ingredients do most of the work.”

They made their way towards the kitchen, where the mouthwatering aroma only intensified, and Henry heard his stomach growl a little in response. The room itself was warmly-lit, with gray cabinets and white-tile countertops, all of it looking remarkably neat and tidy despite the work going on. A cast iron pot sat on the stove simmering away and there was a large leafy salad on the central island. John grabbed a thick dishcloth and pulled a pan of herb-roasted potatoes from the oven, quickly scooping the contents into a serving dish. 

Henry leaned against the counter, gently setting his wine glass down. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“Would you mind taking the salad and potatoes to the table? The wine and bread are already there.” John turned his attention to the pot, grabbing a spoon and giving it a quick stir. “The coq au vin’s nearly done, so I’ll be right behind you.”

As Henry walked in, he noticed that the lights in the dining room had been dimmed lower, while a trio of candles flickered in the center of the table, casting a golden glow over their surroundings. Henry’s flowers were there as well, splayed open to fullness in a porcelain vase, looking darkly beautiful and perfect, as if they had somehow been arranged to match the room. The long rectangular dining table was already set for two, but rather than being placed across from each other, John had put the settings along the adjacent sides of a corner, a subtle gesture that struck Henry as a touch suggestive in its intimacy. (Of course, he had never been invited for dinner like this before, so it was entirely possible he was overthinking things.)

He glanced out the wide windows into the backyard; it was quiet and still, the moonlight softly illuminating a pair of patio chaises and the raised bed of a small kitchen garden.

True to his word, John followed soon after him, carrying the pot with both hands and depositing it carefully on the table, a dishcloth wrapped around the handles to protect him from the heat. He served them both, first by pulling out the larger pieces of chicken thigh with a set of tongs and then by ladling out the dark-colored broth, which was filled with mushrooms, carrots, and chunks of bacon. They helped themselves to the side dishes and to thick slices of bread, and John made sure Henry’s wine glass was filled once more before he topped off his own.  

“I’m glad you came,” he said, catching Henry’s eye over the rim of his glass, and then he smiled, tiny fragments of candle light reflecting in his gaze. 

“Me too,” Henry replied, his face growing warm under such gentle scrutiny. 

The food, naturally, was amazing, which he told John over and over again, and it was all Henry could do not to want to wolf it down as quickly as possible. But he soon found himself following John’s lead, slowing down and pausing so he could savor each bite, each flavor, each sip of wine, enjoying himself in the moment rather than rushing towards some unseen finish. The conversation began to flow easily, any lingering nerves or awkwardness smoothed over, aided, perhaps, by the pouring of more wine. They talked about themselves in ways they hadn’t ever really been able to at the bookstore, in ways that were more personal and real than Henry was completely used to, but it wasn’t hard to talk that way with John, not at all. They talked about books, too – it was almost an inalterable habit at this point – and for a while went back and forth about the depiction of female characters in the first few chapters of  _The Age of Innocence_ , which Henry was nearly half-way through, before finally deciding that they would simply have to agree to disagree when it came to the works of Edith Wharton.

John surprised him with the news that he had also prepared dessert, quickly heading back to the kitchen and returning with two small dishes of crème brûlée, their sugared tops scorched to a golden brown. He showed Henry how to tap the caramelized surface with the back of his spoon so that it cracked evenly enough for him pick up tiny bits of it with each bite of the custard. 

Perhaps it was the combination of the food and the company and the late-growing hour, but they soon found themselves talking about past relationships – or at least Henry found himself talking about his past relationships – and then he realized he didn’t know that much about John, at least not about that side of him. And there  _was_  something he wanted to know, something that had gnawed at him for some time. He hadn’t said anything before, but now, his inhibitions lowered just enough by the wine, he gave in to the desire to ask. 

“It’s just…” He paused, before finally finding some of the words he had been searching for. “You’re a catch, to be honest. Handsome. Educated. You own your own business, your own home. I guess I don’t understand why you’re still…” He didn’t quite want to say it, not when it was going to sound so blunt. 

“Alone?” John offered. 

Henry nodded. 

“You remember the man I told you about, the one I ran the store with?”

Of course Henry remembered. John had never provided much beyond the barest outlines, but from the way he spoke about him, Henry could sense that their relationship had meant a great deal to John and that the impact of his death had been profound.

“Michael was my partner, in every way imaginable,” he continued. “I was young when I met him, like you, but even then we knew that it was something special. We bought the store together, we bought this house together, and after he died, I… well, I wasn’t really looking. I needed time.”

“And now... you’re looking?”

“You could say that.” He smiled softly, his eyes downcast, and then raised them to meet Henry’s gaze. “But from where I’m sitting, I don’t know that I need to look much further.”

They sat there for a moment, neither of them speaking, the air around them charged with something powerful and heavy, something that curled itself around Henry’s throat and pricked hot along his skin. He understood everything John was saying and the invitation that was being laid out before him. A few months ago he would have immediately taken it up and enjoyed what he had been offered, but for some reason he felt the urge to wait, if only for a little while, now understanding that the pleasure to be had in the anticipation was sometimes as great as that to be had in the act itself.

So he cleared his throat, temporarily letting the spell break, and then stood and made an offer to start on the dishes, which was only fair, he said, considering that John did all the cooking. John protested a little – Henry was a guest, he didn’t need to be cleaning up his messes – but eventually gave in, but only with the compromise that he do the drying if Henry insisted on the washing. 

They stood side by side at the sink, each plate and glass scrubbed clean and handed over to be dried, until there was nothing left, and Henry turned off the faucet, the kitchen returning to a steady hum of silence. Saying nothing, he turned a little towards John and reached out to slide a hand along his waist, feeling the warmth of him underneath the fabric of his shirt. He took a step closer until their bodies came up against each other, until they were nearly face to face. But instead of kissing him, he turned so he could graze his nose along John’s cheek, his touch featherlight as he breathed in deeply.

“Are you sure, Henry?” There was a rough strain in John’s voice, and he smiled a little to think he was the cause for it. 

“Completely,” he murmured.

John’s hand quickly found his, their fingers lacing together with ease, as if simply returning to where they were meant to be all along. 

“Shall we go upstairs, then?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this chapter, I'm bumping this up to an M rating. Whoo hoo!

Henry woke with the sun in his eyes, bright and insistent, and he blinked once or twice into the light before quietly groaning and turning over to bury his face into the pillow.

After a little while, the world began to return to him, and as he breathed in against the pillow he quickly realized that it was not his pillow (his was not half so comfortable), nor was the bed he was lying in his bed (his was not half so spacious), nor, it seemed, was he wearing any clothes. And then he smiled to himself with the knowledge of where he was, and exactly whose bed he was in.

Underneath the covers, he stretched his body and kicked a leg out to the side, relaxing into the softness of the sheets and the warm little cocoon he had made between them. Through the quiet of the bedroom, he could hear faint sounds coming from downstairs: there was a woman singing (he could only hope it was the stereo) as well as an assortment of kitchen noises, as cabinets were shut and things were moved around on top of the counters. With a quick sniff, he also caught a hint of the heavenly aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. 

Feeling brave enough to risk it, Henry cracked his eyes open and let them slowly adjust to the light. As he looked around, he could see that the bed took up a good portion of the room – there wasn’t much in terms of furniture besides the nightstands and an upholstered chair in the corner – but maybe that was because the room itself was somewhat small, with a sloped ceiling that cut low into the space. It was airy and light, though, with pale yellow walls and two long, wide skylights set along the length of the ceiling. He raised himself up onto his elbows to glance at the clock sitting on the nightstand: the hands read a quarter to eight. He was a little surprised he woken up so early, but of course the sun streaming in directly through the skylights hadn’t made it that easy for him to sleep in. Just in front of the clock lay a paperback with a bookmark sticking out about two-thirds of the way through, and this time he couldn’t help himself from looking at the cover.  _Memoirs of Hadrian_ , byMarguerite Yourcenar. He would ask John about it later when he had the chance, he told himself, even as he fought the sudden impulse to pick it up and begin paging through it. 

Over on the chair he caught sight of his clothes, loosely folded and draped across the arm, and then he smiled again, knowing that he hadn’t left them that way. 

_(His shirt is in a pile on the floor, the top of his jeans unfastened, and he pulls his mouth away from their kiss so that he can start with that long line of buttons arrayed down the front of John’s chest, each one glinting in the low light of the bedroom. It feels as if he has been waiting so long for this, maybe even from the moment they met. But still, he takes his time, patiently slipping each button from its enclosure, even though his hands begin to tremble a little, and he watches as John’s eyes grow darker and his breath sharper with every anticipatory movement of his fingers.)_

His phone, he realized, was probably still there, tucked in the front pocket of his jeans. He hadn’t charged it since the morning before, so at this point, it had to be totally dead. He was surprised not to feel the urge to go look at it. But was there really anything on it that he needed to see? A bunch of pointless work emails? The never-ending feed from his social media accounts? It all seemed pretty unappealing. Maybe John had the right idea after all in forgoing the thing altogether.

He rolled onto his back and let out a yawn as the white duvet billowed around him like a cloud. He had half a mind to let his eyes fall shut, but needed to be careful if he didn’t want to fall asleep again.

_(Henry’s hands grasp at the fabric of the duvet cover in silent desperation, but he doesn’t know what else to do with them, where else to direct this clawing, overpowering need. He can barely keep himself seated, there on the edge of the bed, not while John is nipping and teasing along the tender flesh of his inner thigh, his hand firm as he takes Henry fully into his grasp.)_

The sounds from downstairs had quieted – he could no longer hear music from the stereo or anything at all from the kitchen – and then he caught the soft, even stutter of footsteps on the stairs. He sat up and tried to smooth down his hair, and then gathered some of the duvet around his waist, although he wasn’t quite sure why, as the time for modesty had come and gone long before this point. 

The door edged open and right behind it came John, wearing an undershirt and pajama bottoms, his hands clasped around a heavily-laden breakfast tray. Their gazes met, and Henry felt his face growing warm with the memory of those hands and all the various places they had been.

_(John’s touch is careful, reverent, and he finds an unhurried, deliberate rhythm that burns fiercely for all that it is so gentle. He is everywhere, all at once, his hands clutching along Henry’s waist – and lower still when Henry begs it of him. He leans forward, breath hot on Henry’s goose-bumped skin as he begins to map a constellation of kisses across his shoulder blades. There is nothing left for Henry, nothing but an endless sea of sensation and desire, nothing but the feeling that with each thrust he could easily shatter into a thousand brilliant pieces and wanting little more than to do just that. He cries out and reaches behind him, looking for something to hold onto, something that will keep him here, tethered close, his hand at last tightening around the curve of John’s hip.)_

John paused near the door, a tiny crease forming just between his eyebrows. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, I was already up,” Henry replied, glancing up towards the ceiling. “The light was coming in pretty strong through the windows.”

“I normally roll down the shades before I go to sleep,” John said, as he walked over and set the tray down on the corner of the bed. “But last night…” 

His voice trailed off, leaving Henry to wonder if he was actually seeing the hint of a blush on John’s cheeks or if it was purely his imagination.

The smell of coffee, though, provided the greater distraction, and he glanced down at the tray, marveling at the vast array of items that John had been able to fit on it. Besides the carafe of coffee, which Henry was nearly ready to dive into face first, there were two glasses of orange juice, bowls of sliced fruit and granola, warm slices of toast, and finally, this morning’s paper, folded sharply in half. It all looked so good that he didn’t quite know where to begin. 

John sat down beside him on the bed, the mattress giving just slightly under his weight.  

 _(The two of them lay there, sweat-sheened and breathless, their bodies turned to face each other, the darkness throwing the rugged planes of John’s face into stark relief. He slowly reaches out towards Henry and brushes a damp piece of hair from off his forehead, his thumb finally coming to graze along Henry’s cheek. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he murmurs,_ _and Henry smiles, because he is wondering the same thing, only about the man lying next to him. But he suspects that John Bridgens has no idea how beautiful he actually is.)_

“I didn’t know how you took your coffee, so I brought cream and sugar.”

“Thanks.” Henry reached for a mug and then the carafe. “Black is fine.”

“There’s also extra toiletries in the guest bath downstairs, in case you needed anything like that. Nothing fancy,” he added, “just odds and ends from the drugstore and the occasional hotel visit _—_ ” 

“John,” Henry said, cutting off the endless string of words, because it suddenly hit him that John was acting strangely nervous, or at least as nervous as John seemed capable of being. It was as if he didn’t really know what to expect from Henry this morning, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what, if anything, their night together might have meant. But Henry didn’t want that, not at all; he didn’t want John to ever be unsure about how he felt.

John had glanced up at the sound of his name, his expression open and unguarded, but Henry could also make out the smallest trace of worry, written there within the depths of his gaze. He set down his coffee, reaching out to lay a reassuring hand across the top of John’s thigh.

“Last night was… great.” Henry sighed a little, knowing how ridiculously lame he had to sound. “I mean, it was beyond great, actually.” He gave John’s leg a squeeze as his mouth curled upwards into an easy grin. “And I really do want to thank you for dinner. And for making breakfast this morning. Everything looks delicious.”

John’s features grew softer, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he slowly returned Henry’s smile. “It’s nice to get to cook for someone again,” he admitted, with a small shrug of his shoulders.

It didn’t take long for them to turn their attention back towards the wide array of food still sitting on the tray, and Henry seized the opportunity to finally pour himself some coffee. They sat there together and ate, drifting into easy conversation, and eventually they both leaned back against the headboard and shared the paper, Henry settling in with the sports section while John began with Arts and Leisure.

Henry was contemplating the possibility of another piece of toast when John turned down the corner of his paper and glanced at him inquiringly. 

“You know, on Saturdays I sometimes walk down to the farmers’ market that’s near right campus. It opens at nine, if you have any interest in going.”

“Yeah, sure,” Henry said, nodding. “That sounds nice.”

John turned back to the paper, but Henry’s gaze stayed on John, his attention drawn to the way his shirt was pulling taut against the broad span of his shoulders, to the tiny strands of dark hair that peeked out beyond the v-shaped neckline of his collar. At this point, he no longer had to rely on his imagination to contemplate what else that shirt was obscuring, and the thought was enough for him to toss his portion of the paper onto the duvet and turn towards John, his hand reaching out and then slipping underneath the thin cotton fabric. 

If John was surprised by Henry’s sudden eagerness, he said nothing, only raising his eyebrows and letting the corner of his mouth tick up in amusement. Eventually, though, he fully surrendered to the onslaught, rolling over onto his back as his arms wound their way around Henry’s neck, his hands clutching softly at the lengths of his close-cropped hair.

“So I know you said it starts at nine,” Henry said, smiling against the pale line of John’s throat, “but how late do you think it stays open?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with added cameos!

They made it to the farmers’ market, eventually.

It had taken some time for the two of them to finally extricate themselves from bed, so they didn’t end up leaving the house until almost eleven. Henry had grabbed a quick shower downstairs while John washed up the breakfast dishes, and rather than wearing what he had on the night before, he took John up on his offer to borrow a long-sleeved shirt from his closet. It was a bit too big on Henry, mostly in the shoulders and along the arms, but he didn’t mind, not when he found that as he breathed in he could catch the warm scent of John that lingered on the soft cotton fabric.

The market wasn’t that far away, just a half mile or so, and the day was looking so beautiful that Henry suggested that they walk.

It was still strange for him to think that all of this had really happened, that he had spent the night in John’s bed, that they had been together in this unexpectedly amazing way – and not just once, but twice. Even stranger was the realization of deeper feelings that he sensed were already starting to form in the quiet corners of his heart, ones that had no business being there so soon, but that refused to be easily dislodged from his thoughts.

Henry had been in relationships before, of course; that wasn’t necessarily anything new. His junior year of high school, still mostly closeted, he had hooked up with another (entirely closeted) member of the baseball team for nearly six months, until the rumors started and it ended with little more than a silent exchange of glances in a crowded hallway. In college, he had fallen in love – and hard – with a Political Science major and spent two glorious years together, studying across from him in the library and listening to him passionately hold forth in late-night coffee shops, all while uncovering a few unvarnished truths about his own personal proclivities: what he liked and what he didn’t like, what quickened him with need, what it took to bring him to abandon. Since then, there had been a few others, nothing that serious, and a couple times he had gone home with someone he met in a bar, which he had enjoyed in the moment but left him with a vaguely empty feeling when it was all over. (One night, out of curiosity – and a bit of desperation – he downloaded a dating app onto his phone and ended up chatting with a guy who lived a few miles away. Henry had gotten halfway to the guy’s address before he thought for a minute about what he was doing and then turned the car around. He ended up deleting the app the next day.)

But this thing that was happening between him and John, whatever it was, it seemed different. Maybe it was because John was a little different, at least in comparison to all the other men Henry had known. There was the age gap – that couldn’t really be ignored – and all their different life experiences and the fact that it sometimes seemed like John had stepped out of the pages of a 19th-century novel, and Henry knew that all those things ought to urge him to caution. And yet as he strolled along the sidewalk, catching John’s dark eyes flashing over at him each time he glanced over, their hands occasionally brushing against each other with tiny sparks of current, caution was the last thing on his mind.

There were still a fair number of people at the market by the time they arrived – perhaps they hadn’t been the only ones getting a late start – and a halfway decent selection of produce left remaining at each of the stands. Henry didn’t really need anything for himself, but he was more than content to accompany John as he visited each one in turn, casting a narrowed, judicious gaze over all the options before finally making his choices. (Henry made a mental note to never let John inspect the pitiable contents of his own refrigerator.) By the time they finished, John’s canvas shopping bags had been filled with all manner of items: carrots, zucchini, string beans, potatoes, bell peppers, and a half dozen large green apples.

“So what do you have in mind for all that?” Henry asked, with a curious nod towards John’s purchases. He had to have some kind of plan, Henry knew. John Bridgens didn’t seem to do much of anything without a plan.

“It’s getting a little colder out, so I was thinking about a vegetable stew.” He glanced down at the apples peeking out from the top of one of the bags. “And maybe pie.”

Henry raised a teasing eyebrow. “Sounds good. Maybe I’ll even get to try it.”

“I would hope so,” John replied, his tone arch, but Henry could hear the softness underneath. “I  _was_  thinking I would make enough for two.”

They smiled at each other then, quietly, shyly, but with the unspoken promise of something more left to linger in their gazes. It was as if there was an invisible thread drawing them closer towards one another, urging them to move as it grew taut, creating a breathless, tugging sensation that Henry felt in every part of his body. His face aflame, he quickly glanced away and drew an unsteady breath. When he looked back he saw John readjusting the straps of the bags along his shoulders, clearly straining a little under their combined weight. 

“Here, let me take one of those,” Henry said as he reached out for closest one, swiftly hoisting the load onto his own shoulder.

They made their way back towards the main street, a wide avenue of shops and busy restaurants, passing people out walking their dogs and families pushing strollers. The sun was high enough in the sky to fully chase away the morning chill and Henry tilted up his head to savor the feel of it on his skin.

In a moment of impulse – because he would have never actually done it had he stopped to think about what he was doing – he slipped his hand into John’s, feeling a surprising measure of relief when it quickly pressed back against him. Henry wasn’t sure how John felt about public displays of affection, having lived through a time when that kind of thing wasn’t ever really done in the open, but he was glad that he didn’t seem uncomfortable with the gesture. A thumb brushed lightly across the top of his knuckles and Henry tightened his grip, but only just, letting the warm weight of John’s hand steady him like an anchor.

“John!” a voice suddenly called out.

Henry stopped and glanced around for the source of the noise, realizing that it had come from just ahead of them, where a man was emerging onto the sidewalk from the open-air patio of a nearby cafe. He was average height and solidly built across the chest, with a round face and sandy blond hair that contrasted with his sun-pinked cheeks. A second man, clearly with him, followed right behind, this one a little younger and a fair bit taller, with a long, lean face and a sharply-cut jaw.

At some point in the confusion, Henry and John’s hands pulled apart – Henry wasn’t sure if it was John’s doing or his own, or maybe both – but it was clear from the silent look the two men exchanged as they made their way over that they had seen what he and John had been doing.

A friendly smile appeared on John’s face as the pair came closer. “Francis, James.” He nodded at briefly at each in turn. “How have you been?”

“Good,” the first man responded – that one, Henry thought, was most likely Francis – and then glanced back towards the patio. “We were just having lunch. It’s such a nice day out. What have you been up to?”

“Oh, the usual.” John shrugged, the casual action made more difficult with the weight of the heavy bag on his shoulder. “Just picking up some things from the market.”

For a moment no one said anything, the quiet stretching out longer and longer, and Henry wondered if he needed to do something, perhaps step in and introduce himself. But he also could see the two men were eyeing John expectantly, who at last seemed to realize what they were waiting for him to do.

“Right… Francis, James,” he said, clearing his throat a little, “I’d like you to meet Henry. Henry, this is Francis and James. They’re old friends of mine.”

The taller one glanced directly at Henry, a quizzical expression forming along his brow. “Henry?” he murmured to his companion. “Is he the one who keeps coming by the—”

“ _James_ ,” Francis hissed, cutting him off sharply, before turning towards Henry with a half-formed grin of embarrassment. “It’s wonderful to meet you.” His gaze flicked over towards John, intently reading him, but even so the smile never fully faded from his lips. “Well, we should probably get going,” he added, curling a hand over the top of James’s shoulder, as if trying to steer him in some direction. “We’ll see you later, John.”

“Of course,” John said, watching as the two men turned back onto the sidewalk and then disappeared into the mid-day throng. 

He looked back at Henry, not quite meeting his eye, and gestured forward, a clear invitation for the two of them to resume their trek, just as they had before the arrival of John’s friends. But as they began to walk Henry found himself thinking about the taller one – James – and what he had said before he had been interrupted.  _Is he the one who keeps coming by… what?_ he wondered.  _The bookstore? Had James been talking about him?_   _How would he have even known about that?_ And then he realized that the only way James could have known was if John had said something. 

With anyone else, such a discovery might have made him feel a bit uncomfortable, but somehow, with John, it seemed more endearing than anything else. Beside him, John had grown very quiet, as if perhaps hoping that Henry had missed James’s inopportune question entirely. 

But he hadn’t. And he couldn’t resist teasing John, just a little. 

“You talked about me to your friends?” he asked, all innocence. 

John let out a long-held sigh and rubbed his hand along his face, but Henry could see underneath where his fingers were pressing at the beginnings of a chagrined smile. 

“So I  _might_  have mentioned – completely in passing – that there was a very handsome and charming young man who occasionally dropped by the store looking for new books to try out.” He paused, his dark eyes flicking cautiously over towards Henry. “And that I looked forward to seeing him… and that each time he left I hoped that he would come back again.”

“That’s what you told them?” Henry asked, his voice a little quieter. 

“In so many words.”

Henry nodded and stared ahead, thinking of all the times he had stepped into the store, his body on edge with nerves and excitement, all the times he had felt his breath sharpen as he spotted a familiar head of silvery-dark hair peeking out from over the top of a row of books. But to know that John had felt the same, and that he had watched Henry walk out the door so many nights without knowing if he’d ever come back, it caught at him in a way he hadn’t prepared for. 

“I hope you keep coming back to the store,” John added. “I wouldn’t want what happened last night to change that.”

Henry smiled, biting down a little along his bottom lip, feeling the tightness in his chest begin to loosen just a bit. “Of course,” he added lightly. “After all, I’ll be needing something new after I finish with Newland and the Countess Olenska.”

John’s laugh was warm, a gentle rumble from the back of his throat. “It might be time to get you started on the Russians. There’s a whole shelf of Dostoevsky waiting to be argued over.”

“Only if we can do it over vodka,” Henry joked.  _Maybe even in front of the fireplace_ , he thought.  _That seems Russian enough_. In his mind, he pictured the one in John’s living room, across from the dark leather sofa, and how cozy and comfortable it would be on a cold winter night, the two of them wrapped up in an oversized blanket, the soft flicker of flames the only thing left to illuminate the space between them.

He shook his head, knowing that he shouldn’t be thinking like that. It was far too early to be thinking anything like that, not when he wasn’t entirely sure what this thing between them even was. He ought to focus on something else, a new topic of conversation that wouldn’t prove quite so distracting. And truth be told, he was more than a little curious about the two men he had just met, mostly because John had never mentioned them. 

“So you said Francis and James were old friends,” he asked. “How long have you known each other?”

“Oh, far too long, probably,” John answered. “Francis and Michael knew each other from the university. Michael was a professor – this was before we opened the store – and Francis still teaches there, in the History department. He and James have been together for almost fifteen years now. But James is a writer, mostly travel books.”

“Anything I’ve heard of?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged, his hand reaching up to steady the bag on his shoulder. “I keep most of them in stock at the store.  _Nanjing Stories_  made the  _Times_  list a few years back. He was a bit insufferable for a while after that, until Francis just started referring to him all the time as ‘New York  _Times_  Bestselling Author James Fitzjames,’ which put an end to most of the peacocking.”

Henry laughed a little, not finding it difficult to believe that John’s friends had been caught up in the middle of such a good-natured domestic squabble. “Have you ever had him come and do an author event?”

“A few times. He does seem to enjoy having an audience,” John added, his mouth curling into an amused grin. “Last time, he ended up recounting the story of how he tried to walk from Mosul to the Turkish border and then got detained for a week by the local police. They thought he was there to join ISIS.”

The best part was that Henry could so easily imagine it: not necessarily the Turkish prison, but the subsequent scene at the bookstore, with James standing up at the lectern, imparting each tale with gusto, all while Francis sat in the front row, rolling his eyes at the more improbable bits. Now that he’d gotten to know bit more about them, they seemed like such an interesting pair, and part of him hoped he might have the occasion to see them again. 

But there was something else John had said – about how Francis had known Michael – that had him wondering about John’s late partner and how they had ended up together in the first place. He wasn’t sure how much John would want to talk about it, and he would understand if he didn’t, but like most things concerning John, he was curious to learn more.  

They had stopped along a corner, waiting for a car to pass, and Henry reached back to rub a hand along the nape of his neck, then finally glanced over to catch John’s eye.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you and Michael meet?”

John paused for a moment, his dark brows furrowing together. 

“I came here for graduate school,” he began. “To get my Ph.D. We were in the same department… that’s how we first met. I was never his student – I studied Greek and he taught mostly Roman history – but it was a small department and we had a lot of shared interests.” He glanced over at Henry, his eyes watchful, as if trying to quietly gauge his reaction. “We had been together for about a year when he came and told me that he had just met with the dean and offered him his resignation and that he wanted me to leave with him. We would both quit, he said, and then together we would open up a bookstore. I thought he was joking. We had sometimes talked about doing that, but it wasn’t anything real, just some silly daydream. But that’s what he wanted to do.” 

“You quit, just because he asked you to?” Henry asked, in partial disbelief. 

John offered a weary shrug. “I was in love. And very young.”

“So you wouldn’t do it again, looking back?”

The faint shadow of a smile edged along the corner of John’s mouth. “I didn’t say that.”

Neither of them spoke; the only sounds left to escape the quiet were the muted chirps of a bird in a nearby tree and the soft, steady rhythm of their feet scuffing against the concrete. 

“What was he like… Michael?” Henry finally asked. 

John’s mouth tightened into a line as he stared off into the bright emptiness of the mid-day sky. “He had a lot of opinions, and definite ideas about the way things should be done. And he could be cruel sometimes, when he thought he had been wronged.” A tiny huff of amusement escaped his lips. “He wasn’t easy, that’s for certain. High-maintenance, I think they call it. But, god, he was so brilliant. And funny. And he had a way of listening to you, looking right at you, like he could see everything, right down to your…” John’s voice, grown thick with emotion, began to trail off, and he turned his face to meet Henry’s gaze. “As if in that moment you were the only thing that mattered.”

“I’m sorry,” Henry murmured, guilt washing over him. He hadn’t wanted to cause John any pain, or cause him to stir up emotions he’d rather keep to himself. “I didn’t… I don’t mean to pry.”

John suddenly stopped, and reached out to grasp along Henry’s shoulder. His hand felt steady, warm, even through the cotton sleeve of his shirt. 

“Don’t ever apologize for asking questions. I’ll gladly tell you anything you want to know.”

Henry nodded, because he could see the truth of it in John’s eyes. And just for a moment, with a small shift of the light, he thought he might have seen something else there, too, written into the other man’s unyielding gaze, but he couldn't really be sure, and by the time he thought to glance away, it had disappeared. 

“Well, in that case,” Henry offered, thinking to lighten the conversation a little, “maybe you’ll tell me how  _The Age of Innocence_  ends? I’m not sure I can deal with a heartbroken Newland Archer.”

John scoffed. “I’m not going to spoil it for you,” he said, as he reached down and wrapped his hand around Henry’s. The gesture was so tiny, so simple, but somehow, in that moment, it felt like everything. “Just know that it ends exactly as it ought to. Because sometimes hearts get broken, Henry. But they mend. They always mend.”


	6. Chapter 6

He hadn’t ever really noticed the box before.

But there it was, small and plain, sitting unobtrusively along one of the shelves in the living room, and Henry couldn’t help but wonder what was inside it. He had only come in to change the music playing on the stereo: John had been in the mood for something more upbeat, with vocals – maybe some Ella Fitzgerald, he had said – but was in no state to be touching anything, not with his hands coated in olive oil and rosemary as he set about seasoning a pair of Cornish game hens. 

Henry switched the record, listening for the tiny crackle as the needle began running through the groove (“ _The moon was all aglow_ ,” Ella began to sing, “ _and heaven was in your eyes…_ ”) before he walked over and picked up the box from off the shelf so that he could examine it more closely. It was about half the size of a shoe box, and a little heavier than he had first thought, made of dark stained wood with a hinged lid. There was no lock, no clasp. He glanced back towards the kitchen, wondering for a moment if he should be looking through John’s things like this. But John had been so open about everything, always reminding Henry when he came over that he should make himself entirely at home, and so, with that thought, he lifted the lid and looked inside. 

It was full of photographs. 

They were all piled together, without any real system of organization, although as he thumbed through them, it seemed like they roughly followed in sequence, newer ones near the top and older ones toward the bottom. 

He switched on the floor lamp next to the sofa and sat down to look at them under the light. Many were just vacation photos: snapshots of mountains and rocky beaches and even one of the Golden Gate Bridge. There were some taken from inside museums, blank walls serving as the background to life-size marble sculptures and gold-framed paintings. But there were people in them, too; he recognized James and Francis, looking about ten years younger, as they sat at a table wearing tuxes and the world’s largest smiles, champagne flutes held high in their hands. Soon enough, he found one of John, his hair much darker and his body a little leaner, standing in front of what Henry recognized as the Parthenon. The date digitally stamped at the bottom read 05/12/2002. He flipped to the next photo to see the same backdrop, but now John was joined by another man, with each of them loosely draping an arm over the other’s shoulders. The man in the picture was older than John, his chestnut hair turning towards gray, with a thin, foxy looking face and a narrow chin. It was strange to finally put a face to the name he had heard enough times, but there was no doubt in his mind who he was looking at. 

John and Michael continued to appeared throughout the stack of photos, sometimes together, sometimes by themselves, although even then Henry suspected that the other one was still there, just behind the camera. There was a picture of the two of them standing right in front of the bookstore, on what looked to be the day it opened. That photo – along with a handful of others – had a sharp bordered edge that was less faded than the rest of the picture, as if the center had sat long exposed to the light, as if, he suddenly realized, it had once been displayed in a frame. 

Further back, towards the bottom of the pile, he saw Michael in a book-lined office, dressed in a tweed jacket and a tie, a good decade’s worth of lines erased from his features. The last few pictures were of John, looking astonishingly young, whip thin with lanky dark hair falling nearly to his shoulders. The eyes, though, were the same, sad and soulful under those thick brows. In one image he was shirtless, sitting up in bed, a cigarette dangling from his fingers as he laughed at some long-forgotten joke. He looked happy, Henry thought. The final picture saw him sitting at a long wooden table, maybe in a classroom, staring out of the frame as he shrank into the bulk of a thick winter peacoat. Henry pulled the photo from the pile and held it up a little closer to the light. He couldn’t help but wonder about this version of John, who sat there with all his life still in front of him: what did he want for himself? Who did he want to become? And this place, where he was right now, was this what he necessarily would have chosen?

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t even hear the steps as they came closer. 

“Oh god, look what you found.”

Henry glanced back to see John standing just behind him, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. His thoughts raced immediately to the box of photographs in his lap and the feeling that he had somehow been caught out with them. 

“Do you mind?” he asked.

John shook his head, his cheeks rounding with an affectionate grin. “I haven’t got any secrets worth hiding.” He leaned over, looking over Henry’s shoulder, and saw the picture in his hand. A tiny sigh escaped his lips as he glanced at the photo and then down at himself, as if drawing a somewhat unfavorable comparison. “Although looking at that isn’t doing much for my pride,” he added, his eyebrows raised knowingly. He pressed a brief kiss to the top of Henry’s head and then nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “C’mon, I poured you a glass of wine.”

The Cornish game hens were already in the oven, so they set to work on the salad and the side dish, which tonight was roasted acorn squash. Henry was serving as the prep chef, tasked with washing and chopping, a role that he had started taking on over the last few weeks. Henry didn’t really know much about cooking, aside from what he had watched his mom do growing up, but he was interested, and John was a patient teacher, showing him proper knife techniques and how to eyeball measurements so he didn’t have to dirty up a bowl or a spoon. 

He ate over at John’s house quite a bit these days, and if that happened to involve staying the night – as it almost always did – no one seemed to mind that much. At first it was just once a week or so, over the weekend, but then at one point it turned into a whole weekend, and then the occasional weeknight as well. It wasn’t just that John’s house was nicer than his apartment – although it definitely was, by any standard – but that Henry found that he didn’t quite know what to do with himself when he was at home. He read some, or watched TV, but the place seemed too empty, too quiet, his bed too big without someone lying there next to him. 

In the quiet refuge of John’s bed, he was also learning more, and not just in the way that all new lovers begin to grow familiar with the feel and smell and taste of another person’s body. For all of his outward calm and composure, John had often surprised him with the sheer intensity of his need, and how quickly it could be awakened. Since that first night, they had each begun to take on different roles, depending on their mood; there were times Henry desired nothing more than to be possessed, surrounded, filled in a way that would make him forget himself, and times when John would lay back against the softness of the duvet and give himself over entirely to the younger man.

He had started leaving a few things at John’s, mostly for convenience’s sake: a toothbrush, a couple of shirts and pairs of boxer briefs. He kept it all downstairs, though, in the guest bath; for some reason, the idea of leaving things upstairs, in John’s private space, seemed like something deliberate, a line he wasn’t entirely ready to cross. 

Their dinner, of course, was delicious, and it was nice to be able to take a small bit of pride in what he had managed to contribute. They had just finished eating and Henry was thinking that he might start to clear the plates to make room for dessert when John leaned back in his chair, a tiny pensive line etched between his brows, as if he had something he had been waiting to say.

“So you’ve met Francis and James,” he said, his voice slightly hesitant, “but I was wondering if you’d like to meet the rest of my family.”

“Your family?” Henry asked in confusion. “Like your parents?”

“No.” John shook his head gently. “Not my parents. They’re…” He paused, letting out a small little exhalation. “I’m not actually sure where they are. We’re not close.” He looked over again at Henry, his gaze warming as his lips pressed into the beginning of a smile. “I mean my real family. There’s Francis and James, but it’s a whole group, really. I would say old friends, but they’re more than that. They were there for me when I needed it, at a time when I wasn’t really sure how to be there for myself.” His gaze turned loose and unfocused, momentarily dropping down towards the table. “So…” he continued, “we all get together once a month, for brunch, and I thought you might want to come with me this time.”

“You want me to come with you?” Henry asked. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand what John was saying, but this seemed like a step – in John’s mind at least, and maybe even in his own – towards making this undefined thing between them into something a little more official, a little more real. 

“Only if you want to. I understand if you don’t.”

“No,” Henry said, a smile unconsciously forming on his lips, “I’d like to go. I’d like to meet them all. Especially if they’re anything like Francis and James.”

John laughed. “I don’t think I can promise you that, I’m afraid. No one’s really like Francis and James.”

And so the following Sunday, Henry found himself pulling up outside a neighborhood restaurant, one he had heard people mention a few times, but had never been to. He wasn’t quite sure he was in the right place, but the he ducked and squinted through the windshield and recognized the name written along the awning over the entrance:  _The Admiralty_. And there was John, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, standing right by the door like they had planned. He had needed to go to the store early that morning to do inventory and Henry had taken it as an opportunity to run home so he could shower and change into something clean and presentable. He hoped he looked alright; he definitely wanted to make a good impression on John’s friends. 

“You found it,” John said, once Henry had parked and made it up to the front entrance.

“I did. God bless Google Maps.” He reached out and squeezed John’s waist through the fabric of his jacket, smiling as he pointedly ignored the other man’s barely-concealed expression of disdain. Henry was well aware of John’s stance on technology, although that didn’t stop him from trying to introduce him to a few new things that he might actually find useful. “So what’s with the name?” he asked out of curiosity. “It seems like a strange thing to call a restaurant.”

“I’m not sure. It’s been called that for ages, or at least as many years as we’ve been coming here.” John shrugged. “Maybe the owner had some sort of obsession with British naval ventures.” He turned and glanced towards the windows, as if suddenly reminded of what was awaiting them. “Shall we go in?” he asked, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

Most of their party had already arrived and been seated outside on the back patio. As the two of them threaded their way through the interior of the restaurant Henry caught a glimpse of a group through the windows, with Francis and James sitting along one end of their table. They both looked up as he and John stepped out onto the patio. 

“Oh, look, it’s John!” Francis said, rising up from his seat and waving them both down. “And Henry, too. So glad you could make it,” he added, his smile warm as he glanced in Henry’s direction. 

Henry and John grabbed a pair of unoccupied seats and then there were introductions all around. Besides Francis and James, there was Thomas, a structural engineering professor with wavy brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail (“Most of the time my wife Esther comes, too,” he explained to Henry, “but she’s training for a half-marathon and didn’t want to be tempted by the French toast”), and Edward, an associate in a law firm downtown, and his boyfriend, John, who worked in youth ministry. As Henry was talking with John about his church and the kind of programming they ran, two additional members of their party arrived and took the last remaining seats.

“Sorry, everyone,” said the first man, kindly-faced, with light brown hair. “Shift ran late.” Behind him, the second man, younger, with dark hair and pale blue-gray eyes, offered a cherubic smile of apology. 

“Wait,” asked James, glancing around the table and looking more than a little perplexed, “where’s Harry?”

Francis leaned over, angling himself towards James. “He and Silna are out of town this weekend, remember? They went to visit her father.” He looked over at Henry, as if to fully explain. “Harry is a pathologist and his girlfriend, Silna, works for Greenpeace. But Harry’s at the same hospital as Alex and Tom,” he added, nodding towards the two late arrivals. 

Alex, Henry soon learned, was a trauma surgeon, and his partner, Tom, worked as a nurse in the intensive care unit. They had met, Alex explained, when they accidentally fell asleep in the same bunk in the on-call room. 

“We must have been too exhausted to notice each other when we fell asleep,” he told Henry, as Tom turned a lovely shade of pink behind him. “Let’s just say that was definitely not the case when we woke up!” 

As their party was now complete, Francis flagged down a server to take their orders. Two full carafes of mimosas were ordered for the table, and Henry quickly perused the menu, finally deciding on eggs Benedict with sourdough toast. (“I’m sure it won’t be as good as yours, though,” he murmured to John, who only looked back at him with his lips firmly pressed together into a warm, slightly self-satisfied smile.) The drinks arrived, followed by the food, and soon enough the table was buzzing with lively conversation, interrupted only when James would periodically launch into a story from his travels that had the group entirely entranced. For all he knew, these might have been stories that they had all heard a dozen times before, but it didn’t seem to diminish their enjoyment, even Francis, who continued to look on indulgently with an arm stretched out across the back of James’s chair. Everyone ate and drank, and eventually they ordered another round of mimosas, although Henry couldn’t help but notice that Francis was the only one abstaining, instead keeping himself to refills of coffee. 

Henry might have been overwhelmed by being surrounded by so many new people, but they were warm and welcoming and asked him all about himself and his family and what he did for a living. His nerves loosened a bit by his second mimosa, he told the story of how he and John had met, how he had wandered into the bookstore and wandered out with a three-thousand-year-old Greek epic, and somehow had ended up coming back for more. There were nods and smiles as he spoke, directed at him, but also at John, sitting just beside him. They were happy for John, he realized. It occurred to him as he spoke that none of them had seemed at all confused when he and John first arrived, and that no one had questioned why Henry was there at all. Because, of course, they all had already known who he was and what he was doing there. Maybe John had said something, or maybe Francis, but they all seemed to completely accept the fact that he was there with John, and that John had someone new in his life he wanted them to get to know. 

As the meal was winding down, Henry quickly excused himself to the restroom for a moment. He had just finished up and was pushing open the men’s room door to rejoin the party when he saw Francis standing just outside in the hallway, leaning against the wall as if he had been waiting for him. He didn’t quite understand – _had something happened at the table while he was gone?_  – until it finally dawned on him that Francis had wanted a chance to talk to him in private, away from John. 

“That’s a good man sitting out there,” he finally said.

Henry swallowed, his throat catching on something rough, as he wondered what exactly Francis was trying to tell him. Was it a warning? Or did he think Henry was somehow unaware of what a good man John Bridgens truly was? 

“I know,” he replied. 

“I hope so.” Despite the bluntness of the words, Francis’s voice had turned quieter, a touch more cautious, his clear and direct gaze revealing the depth of his sincerity. “Please don’t mistake what I’m saying,” he added. “In the last two months, he’s been different. He seems happier than he has in years, maybe even since I’ve known him.” He paused, letting out a breath that was not quite a sigh. 

“Just… be careful with him, Henry. Please don’t break his heart.” 

Henry opened up his mouth to speak, but what could he say that wouldn’t sound stupid, like a ridiculous cliché –  _“I would never…”? “I’m not that kind of guy…”?_  – and so instead he simply nodded, hoping Francis would understand. It was true that he hadn’t known John all that long – certainly not as long as the men outside sitting around that table – and despite their warm welcome, to them he was still an unknown element, someone who might possibly hurt their friend if given the chance.

But did he really have the power to break John’s heart, a prospect he found almost too terrible to fully contemplate? Because if what Francis was saying was true – and he had no reason to think it wasn’t – then John’s feelings for Henry ran even deeper than he had suspected. Henry was only beginning to formulate a true sense of his own feelings towards John, and he wondered if he, too, might have given away more of his heart than he was ready to acknowledge. But he knew he never wanted to hurt John or do anything to cause him pain – and when all was said and done, he never wanted to turn into a photograph that John would have to stick away inside a box. 

Francis nodded back in acknowledgement and then brushed by him as he entered the men’s room, leaving Henry alone with his thoughts as he made his way back to the table.

As he walked back outside, he could see that James was in the middle of a story, the whole group still and quiet as they listened with rapt attention.  

“…all we had been doing was sharing a delicious meal of döner kebab. How was  _I_  to know he was a black-market arms dealer wanted by six EU member states and Interpol?”

“So where’s the trial being held?” someone asked.

“Well, The Hague, naturally.”

Something about his interaction with Francis must have still been showing on his face, though, because once he found his seat again, John leaned in a little closer. “Everything all right?” he quietly asked. 

“Of course,” Henry answered, offering him a wide, reassuring smile as he reached down and squeezed the top of John’s leg just above the knee.  

James finished up his story – the tribunal was scheduled for this coming spring and he was trying to convince Francis that they should take a week and fly out to watch some of the proceedings (“I’ve sweetened the deal by offering to tack on an overnight in Amsterdam,” he added) – and by the time Francis returned, the bill had arrived. They settled up and began to say their farewells, and Henry was swallowed up in a number of hugs and requests to come back and join them again the following month. 

Eventually, though, he was able to extricate himself and he and John found themselves back in front of the restaurant as John walked him back to where his car was parked along the street. 

They stopped there, and Henry turned towards John, smiling gently as their gazes met. Part of him wanted to say something about Francis, and the conversation they had shared, but he knew that it was private enough that he shouldn’t, even if it meant keeping something from John. 

“Your friends are great,” he said. “They care a lot about you.” 

“They liked you, too,” John replied quietly, his gaze soft and full of tenderness. “But I'm not surprised.”

At any other point in his life, it would have been too much to have another person look at him the way that John Bridgens was looking at him just then. He wouldn’t have known what to do with it, or how to make sense of the feelings it was giving life to within his own chest, as his heart pressed deep and fast against his ribs, as if trying to convey the words that the rest of him didn’t dare to speak. At any other point his life, he might have thought only to escape the complexity and intensity of those feelings. But at this point, standing across from this man, extraordinary in so many ways, running away was the last thing he wanted to do. 

“So I can’t really think about food right now,” he said, putting his hand to his overfull stomach, “but why don’t I head home and do a little planning and maybe run to the grocery store and then later tonight I can come over and cook dinner for the two of us?” 

“You want to cook dinner?” John asked, his dark brows furrowing inward.  

“I think you deserve a little break, don’t you? And it’ll give me a chance to practice some of the things I've learned.” Henry paused, the side of his mouth curling into a wicked half-grin. “Unless we’re not at the point in our relationship where you think you can trust me with your Cuisinart?” 

John flashed him a knowing smile, the sight of which was enough to make Henry’s breath catch unsteadily in his throat. 

“Sounds lovely,” he said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a little [Ella](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iT15WlGnjb0) to get you in the mood and some [references](http://lafiametta.tumblr.com/post/177849543727/pottedmusic-replied-to-your-post-questions-3-5) for grad-school-era John. As for Michael, I imagine him (in his teaching days, at least) looking a bit like [a younger Ian McKellen](https://hollywoodandallthat.files.wordpress.com/2014/04/acting-shakespeare-france.jpg), although maybe not quite so pretty!


End file.
